


A Little Closer

by Rellie



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 05:09:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rellie/pseuds/Rellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jaime assists Brienne with her wounds after Harrenhal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Closer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



Her room in the inn is small, barely enough room for the small bed, lamp and washstand to fit in. Certainly not large enough for someone of Brienne’s stature to fit into comfortably. But it suits her purposes well enough and it is better than the option of sleeping under the stars, especially when the weather is behaving unpredictably.

Carefully she pulls the top part of her dress away to examine the claw marks on her shoulder, wincing as she peels the bloody material away from where it has adhered to the wounds.

Qyburn has given her an ointment, it smells swampy and unpleasant but the man seems to have done a good job healing Jaime so she will give him the benefit of the doubt. It’s cold and unpleasantly gunky against her fingertips but she smears it liberally over the gouges, wincing only slightly as it sets them stinging.

The door creaks open and she starts, automatically falling into a firmer stance.

But it is only Jaime, clutching a pile of fabric and shouldering open the door as best he can.

He’s obviously brought clothes for her….she wonders where he got them with the nearest proper town so far away but is grateful. Going back to King’s Landing in this tattered blood-stained pink dress is the last thing she wants to do. And it appears he’s found armour from somewhere, a simple breastplate but her heart jumps at the sight of it. She never feels entirely attired without armour.

He places it on her narrow bed, squeezing past her to do so. She does her best to ignore their proximity, continuing to apply to ointment, fingers moving delicately.

“Allow me to assist you.”

A little startled she looks across at him, he’s frowning, staring down at the ointment in her hands. She must look horrified because he hastens to explain,

“Your back… you have wounds you cannot reach. I can assist you.”

He looks up, meets her eyes as she watches him suspiciously,

“Or I can fetch Qyburn, if you’d prefer?”

She would most definitely not prefer. To use the ointment the old man gave her is one thing, to have his hands on her skin…quite another.

She has to admit he’s right; some of her wounds are not where she can reach them. Her plan had been to tend to them once they reached their destination but she knows that is not entirely sensible…wounds could go bad in days if left. These are only long shallow scrapes from the floor of the bearpit but the smallest injury left untreated could become problematic.

Begrudgingly she hands over the ointment.

“The light has to be out.”

She can hear him mumbling about how she expects him to do this one handed _and_ in the dark, about how he has seen it all before anyway, but he dutifully extinguishes the lamp. The moonlight filtering in through the window lends some form to things but not enough to make out details she hopes.

Taking a deep breath she peels down the ruined pink dress, wincing as she does so. It falls heavy at her feet. Despite the fact she is only unclothed from the waist up somehow she feels barer in front of him now than she did in the Baths at Harrenhal.

Turning she puts her back to him, arms automatically coming up to modestly cover her breasts despite the darkness.

“Okay, you can…start.”

There is the slightest tremor in her voice that she hates.

His hand is held out in front of him, to make sure he does not fall and she almost jumps when it makes contact with her shoulder.

Carefully he runs his fingertips down her back, she hisses through her teeth when they make contact with the long shallow wounds. He murmurs apologies under his breath.

His fingertips are calloused, as any good swordsman’s should be and they skim down her spine until they reach the wounds again.

Even though it’s dark she closes her eyes and draws in a deep breath. She is utterly unprepared for the frisson of arousal that shivers through her.

She has not had much experience with men in this regard, the little she knew of this side of romance was gleaned from bawdy tales in Renly’s camp which seemed to be exaggerated by the other knights to make her blush…at least she hopes they were. They made seduction sound like a battle, harsh, with inevitable winners and conquered failures. All the pleasure seemed to be the domain of men while women were expected to endure.

But his simple touch has made her shiver in pleasure.

The unexpected cold of the ointment on her skin makes her gasp out loud.

“Are you in pain?”

He sounds concerned.

“No.”

The darkness means she can’t see anything but she doesn’t think she has ever been more aware of him. She can feel the heat his skin is radiating, inches from hers as he contents himself with applying the ointment. It seems to take hours, as painfully aware as she is of each brush of his fingers against her skin. 

His dragging fingertips slow, not near her wound now but on unmarked skin lowered down her back, just above the curve of her hip. She can’t see his face in the dark but his breathing has changed, coming a little harsher and faster now.

_He’s not unmoved by her as a woman_.

The idea hits her with a rush of dizzying certainty. Here, alone in the dark with his hands on her skin…

She can hear her own heartbeat thudding in her ears, her own breath coming faster.

The moment, the _possibility_ hangs thick in the air.

He clears his throat,

“I believe we're done.”

His words break the silence. She moves away as quickly as she can, gathering up the ruined dress and clutching it to her chest, turning to face him. He’s just a shape in the dark but she can see the tension in how he’s standing, practically feel it radiating into the air.

Neither of them suggests relighting the lamp and she is glad. Seeing each other’s faces right now would be a mistake…she isn’t sure how she knows this but she does.

He moves to leave but pauses by the door, a darker shadow amongst the grey.

“Should anything…arise during the night, my room is next door.”

There is a note of hope, of suggestion in his voice. 

“It won’t.”

She says it sadly, but firmly.

There are too many complications. Too many other people and allegiances involved. Too many potential consequences.

He goes to reach for the door again and something makes her call out,

“Wait.”

It takes more courage than she knew she had to place her hand on his shoulder and press him into turning.

Her hand finds his cheek in the dark and she leans forward.

The press of lips is brief, simple…wistful. It speaks of other lifetimes, other possibilities.

It’s not a prelude to anything, they both know it won’t lead anywhere. It will stay in this moment, in this draughty little inn room.

She pulls back before he can truly begin to respond.

“Goodnight, Ser Jaime.”

“Goodnight, my lady.”

**Author's Note:**

> Okay this was for desi, the prompt was 'stealing a kiss' and it's taken me ages (by my standards at least...) to get around to it! I'm hoping this might mean I'm at least partially forgiven for Chapter 11 of The Covering Sky ;)


End file.
